Jim Ross

I was recently in the audience of three successful authors from my alma mater. The first went to grad school in architecture, ended up becoming editor in chief responsible for selling the brand for of a major national publication, and recently became Chancellor at a University. The second dabbled in short stories, planned to author his first novel, but then won a fellowship in screenplay writing, so instead he wrote his first screenplay. He turned that into a successful film, and he now teaches screenplay writing at a major university and is in demand in Hollywood. The third was a failed stockbroker who was never able to figure out Wall Street’s formula. So, he decided instead to analyze his favorite thriller novels to figure out the formula underpinning them, began writing his own thriller novels, and has published ten, including a few best sellers.

When it was time for the Q&A, I ran to the microphone to be the first of several to ask, “How do I get published?” I explained I’d had a successful career based on the ability to get research projects funded and professional articles published, but I needed an alternative plan to submitting articles scattershot to many of the hundreds of literary journals across the country run largely by MFA students. Isn’t there a better way?

The Chancellor said to convene focus groups of my target audience.

The short story writer who morphed into a screenplay writer said he thought I should stick with my plan. “That’s what I did, and so did my idol, George Stephens. You need to pay your dues. But you also should go to conferences and join a writer’s group so you can meet people who are trying to do things like what you’re trying to do so you can get ideas from each other.”

Looking bored, the thriller writer said, “Talk to my agent.”

At the reception afterwards, I cornered the Chancellor, and told him his answer made no sense for my situation.  I’m sure focus groups helped him better understand his audience as editor of a major magazine; for me to accomplish the same result, I’d have to conduct focus groups of journal reviewers.

He agreed and said, “What I should have said was, you learned in your career that you rarely got anything funded when the client didn’t already want to fund you before you wrote your proposal. That’s where you want to end up with your writing. Focus on making connections. Network. Get to know people so they want you and you don’t have to run after them.”

The publisher of a major university press was listening to our conversation. “I can tell you want you need to do. Everything you did your entire career. This is no different. You’re wasting your time with the hundreds of little lit magazines. It’s okay to send things to them, and to publish in them, but that can’t be your main focus. If you really want to get published in major journals, you need to show up in places where you can see and be seen and get to know how to get access.” Then he handed me his business card.

Nearly everyone else in the audience asked pretty much the same question, but they were all in the third decade of life, and I’m in my seventh. They got answers like, “Go home, move back in with your parents, and write screenplays in your bedroom.”

My takeaway was, I need to get out from behind the computer and go to more events, across town or across the country. I need to find a writer’s group focused on creative non-fiction. At the right moments, I need to be bold and walk up to the editor of a major magazine and say, “Can you read this?” as I did a couple years back, with a positive outcome. I need to create moments of connection and access.

In the meantime, I will continue following a systematic approach in submitting articles to the hundreds of literary journals out there just waiting to reject my stuff. Until people know me and are asking me to write a piece for them, trying to get published is just going to be a numbers game.

Jim Ross is on quest to resuscitate his long-neglected right brain. He spent his career of successfully overusing his left brain to publish in professional research and practitioner journals related to health. His hope is that, by doing things he loved in his 20s, like writing creatively, his right brain will start functioning again. As a result, he’s gotten several articles published in a variety of journals in the past three years.

Kathleen Nalley

You wrote. You edited. You rewrote. You submitted your manuscript. Finally, the acceptance letter arrived. You celebrated. You high-fived. You fist-bumped. Then, reality hit. You now must promote your work. Before you retreat under your bed in terror, before you have an anxiety attack over the awkwardness of writing and talking about yourself in third person, check out these 20 steps for easing your transition from introverted writer to marketing maniac.

1. Forget that fear is primal. Forget that even the wild, magnificent cheetah is vulnerable to fear. In fact, cheetahs face competition with other cheetahs every day, as well as predation from larger animals and persecution by mankind.
2. Compose a press release about your work. Include nice graphics. Be sure to include contact information.
3. Remember that you are as magnificent as the cheetah. You type fast. You write furiously.
4. Send the press release to local media. Be sure to look up specific names of contacts and address them personally.
5. Embrace your spots, although they may offend some and turn off others. Some folks like plain cats, and you can’t change that.
6. Send an email to every close contact announcing your new work.
7. Keep telling yourself that change can happen.
8. Post your news on Facebook and Twitter.
9. Do not equate your self-worth to the promotion process. Keep a healthy distance when you write about yourself in third person. Don’t let you get in the way of you. Or her.
10. Made a video interpretation of your work using animoto or some other free video creation service. People like pictures.
11. Tell yourself everything’s going to be okay.
12. Share photos of your cover design on Instagram. Remind yourself constantly that people like pictures.
13. Chant, “I can write solely for my own sake!” 20 times while looking in the mirror.
14. Create business cards and — big step alert! — actually list “writer” after your name.
15. If you’re feeling low, change something up. Leave the computer for a while. Get a haircut. Haircuts always make you feel better.
16. Chant, “I don’t need anyone’s approval. I’m a freaking cheetah! And I have great hair!”
17. Prepare your freezer with three tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream. Cherry Garcia™ and That’s My Jam™ soothe the savage beast.
18. Call local bookstores to book future readings.
19. Pat yourself on the back for putting yourself out there. It takes guts to do what you do. And it really takes guts to promote it.
20. Remember, like the cheetah, every facet of your anatomy has evolved: to ward off, to emerge, to fight. You got this.

Kathleen Nalley has been hustling to pre-sell her latest collection of poems, American Sycamore, from Finishing Line Press, before the November 28 deadline. #20 above features a line from the title poem of the collection (subtle, huh?). She is the author of Nesting Doll, winner of the S.C. Poetry Initiative Prize, has published in various journals, and was recently featured in The Bitter Southerner. She has an MFA from Converse College. No surprise: she wants you to reserve your copy of American Sycamore by visiting finishinglinepress.com, clicking on the “Preorder Forthcoming Titles” tab on the right, and scrolling down until you see American Sycamore.

Richard LeBlond

Now 73, I am a late-comer to the thrills and chills of literary submissions. In November 2013, I sent out my first manuscript, by Amish wagon, printed and mailed with a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE to historians). The journal is one of the few left that doesn’t use the internet for submissions. I’m glad I did it, for old school’s sake. That’s how it was done when I first thought I might be a writer. But now it is a waste of postage and part of a pulp tree. A terse e-note of rejection, apologetic and uncritical, is enough. I don’t need to pay to have the work thrown back in my face (which it was).

It surprised me that payment for accepted submissions from the great majority of journals is either barter or ego-petting, not cash. (I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that “barter” comes from a French word meaning “to cheat.”) Instead of cash, I am offered one-to-few copies of the issue in which my love child appears, and/or a subscription. Online journals and blogs like this one think I’ll be satisfied with a note of acceptance. Pathetically, they’re right. I may not even have heard of the publication before, but now it is a god in my literary pantheon for recognizing and validating my work.

Many journals, maybe even a majority, require the purchase of an issue or an annual subscription to get a sense of what they are looking for. That’s nonsense. We’re talking – what? – maybe hundreds of publications. Who can afford that? And there goes a whole forest of pulp trees (or at least multitudes of megabytes on the harddrive). A journal should offer free online at least three examples in each genre it publishes, giving a sense of the range of its interests. It will reduce wasted time – for editor and writer – by improving the ratio of appropriate to inappropriate submissions. It might even boost subscriptions.

I was astounded that many journals charge reading fees, typically $30. It is as if creative writing not only has lost its value, but has become a nuisance, something we have to pay to have hauled off. Some journals have submission contests that require a raffle-like entry fee for the prospect of winning enough money – likely from the other submitters – to buy two months of beer. The field at least is narrowed by exclusion of starving artists, and principled tightwads like me.

Then there are the journals that charge an online submission fee of $3. These may be run by publishers and editors who spent decades mailing their own SASE manuscripts. They think it unfair that our internet servers don’t charge us for online submissions on top of our monthly fees (though lord knows they could). Some journals call the $3 a reading fee, which makes no sense – unless our submissions are being sent to a sweatshop in Cambodia. “Mealea! You only read 37 manuscripts today, and you know your quota is 50. I’m beginning to think we wasted our money and your time on that speed-reading course.”

Okay, okay, enough journal-bashing. They must rely on us for their validation, as we do on them. The majority are on institutional welfare, ducking the budget scythe. Journals out in the ‘hood are at even greater risk. My very first acceptance was rejected when the new journal went belly-up. “Sales for the first issue have been slow,” the editor told me in the rather depressing acceptance email, “and there is a lack of usable submissions for issue #2.”

For a while I believed the writing went better without readers and editors. I imagined Salinger in his Appalachian retreat writing for no one but himself. Sometimes I thought my writing so good that a Pulitzer nomination was inevitable. Then after I had set it aside for a while, I wondered how I could have been so vain and foolish over such an imperfect thing.

I realized I needed feedback. So I began sending essays to indentured readers – friends and relatives. But ultimately I thought they might hold back criticism for fear of hurting my feelings. It is a reasonable fear.

I now accept that editors can be useful. They are professional readers who combine a fresh perspective with a warrior’s willingness to draw blood. I now know that validation comes from the reader. My observations are meaningful only if they are meaningful to you.

I believe it was Tom Cruise who said: “The reader completes me.”

Richard LeBlond is a retired botanist living in North Carolina. He has been writing about life experiences, travels to Europe and North Africa in the early 1970s, and more recent adventures in eastern Canada and western U.S. First attempting to publish in winter-spring 2014, he has had essays published or accepted by Montreal Review, Appalachia, and Weber—The Contemporary West.

Debby DeRosa

If you’ve always been meaning to write a novel, you don’t have to wait until the New Year to make a resolution. You can start your novel tomorrow along with 400,000 other writers participating in the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.

The goal of the project is to write 50,000 words during the month of November, which breaks out to a little over 1600 words a day. If you free write without editing and don’t get stuck staring at your screen for long periods of time, this task could take about an hour each day, a challenging but feasible goal for almost anyone. At the end of the month, you would have a rough draft around the length of The Great Gatsby. And you would be an official NaNoWriMo “winner.”

One of the best parts of NaNoWriMo is the community of writers who help you along the way. You can sign up for a region and participate in write-ins, which means you meet other writers at a physical location and write with them. Also, you can participate in forums and read scheduled pep talks from known authors. As you make friends, you can add these people as “Buddies” in your dashboard, and you can cheer each other along. Because let’s face it. Writing can be a lonesome activity, and we all need encouragement.

Then, in January and February, you can participate in the “Now What?” Months. During this period, you revise your novel for possible publication. Over NaNoWriMo 250 novels have been traditionally published.

However, NaNoWriMo isn’t just about getting published. For many people, writing a novel is kind of like running a marathon, a challenge worth undertaking for its own sake. And what you learn in the process of writing your novel it is far more important than the achievement of the final goal itself.

In a participant testimonial on the NaNoWriMo website, Deana Anker says, “Honestly, no one really ever told me I could be a writer. The first time I even considered it was NaNoWriMo 2010. A few friends had posted blurbs about NaNoWriMo and I signed up on a whim. It was the single most transformative and enlightening experience of my life.”

NaNoWriMo believes we all have a story to tell and that each person’s story matters. Participating in NaNoWriMo is about breaking away from the pressure and the feeling of being judged. It brings the writer back to his or her own creativity.

“Every year, we’re reminded that there are still stories that have yet to be told, still voices yet to be heard from all corners of the world,” says Executive Director Grant Faulkner. “NaNoWriMo helps people make creativity a priority in life and realize the vital ways our stories connect us.”

Are you ready to get started? Sign up today, and write your first words tomorrow.

Debby DeRosa holds a BA in English from the University of South Carolina-Columbia and an MFA in Creative Writing from Converse College.  In addition to being Editor-in-Chief of South85 Journal, she is the Marketing Manager of Five Star Plumbing Heating Cooling in Greer, SC, and she freelances as a copywriter and content developer.  She and her husband, Joe, live in Greenville, SC, with their two daughters, Aimee and Ruby.

Katrina Johnston

Recipe cards are my nemesis and my friend. They’re strewn all over my desk–but none hold recipes.

I tote around two hefty decks; these cards are my real efforts to track my written submissions. I’m carrying them to the coffee houses where I normally work and then I use the shop’s WiFi to submit my short fiction. One deck of cards lists the title of each manuscript and a further list of when and where and to whom I’ve submitted.

Another bundle is slimmer than the first, and it provides information about where I may submit in future. These include a list of publications that have previously looked upon my efforts–or perhaps they’re new. God forbid that I mistakenly submit the same manuscript two times to the same journal, submit in error, or submit when one of my stories is still undergoing the editorial digestive process.

I remember once that I sent a sweet, home-style essay to a place that wanted only the darkest cutting-edge of hard science fiction. That story didn’t launch my writerly career. I try for more suitability these days.

A bulging box of recipe cards is filed at home and more cards are haphazardly laying idle on my desk, the remnants of all the places that I have ever submitted manuscripts. A bit of shuffling from time to time reorganizes what I take to coffee shops. I make new cards as new publications pop up like literary blades of grass.

Yet another mess of cards has been bunched together and put aside. That’s the cards that I deem ‘sketchy.’ These cards include the places that have not bothered to respond; apathy devastates me most of all. I will gracefully accept any rejection if an editor is straight-talking and knows the drill, or even if it’s boilerplate. ‘Least then I’ll know.

Occasionally a literary contact has been less than joyful. More than a few definitive ‘never agains’ reside within the sketchy cards. But there are a few listings I can also celebrate and these include the kindest and most encouraging rejections, the ones that make sense and offer sound writing critique, or are so well thought-out and meaningful that I cannot help but agree and go back for a re-write and more editing. I send effusive heartfelt gratitude. Thanks for the advice. Thanks to these kind and wise and experienced publishers and to other writers. Several have helped me to become a better storyteller.

I know it’s ridiculously old school, this card system, and I should teach myself how to adapt a spreadsheet program, or a database that would better track a zillion submissions and rejections and help me highlight the occasional acceptance.

I am able to embellish a scattering of my manuscript cards with a fat blue pencil– marking these with a heavy-handed and definitive “A” for Acceptance, and a joyful star and a then a smiley face when the piece finally appears as published. Not many, but the odds fare better now.

Wouldn’t it be more efficient to actually use these recipe cards for recipes? Then again, there are many other things I’d rather do than cook.

Katrina Johnston is the winner of the CBC-Canada Writes True Winter Tale. She lives in James Bay in Victoria BC, Canada. Works of short fiction may be found at several online venues. Occasionally, she breaks into print. The goal of her storytelling is to share.

Larry Lefkowitz

A few years back I told somebody that I was a writer.

“Do you support yourself writing?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“So it’s a hobby,” he said.

Inwardly offended, I nodded in unconvinced agreement.

Later, I thought about it. Almost all of my stories, articles or poems appeared in “little” magazines that paid in copies. To be honest, considering mailing costs, paper, etc., as far as my writing went, I was in the red. Financially speaking, my writing was indeed a hobby.

When I was younger, I had aspirations of having my books published; or my plays, or a collection of my short stories, none of which I ever achieved. I succeeded in getting an occasional story, poem, or article published. Over the years they amounted to a repectable total. But individually, it was nothing earthshaking.

Back then, if I could have known what I know now – that I would have to be satisfied with occasional success – I would have been disappointed. I would also have been chagrined to know that I would be unable to support myself by writing and would have to work at a job and write on the side – another basis for characterizing my writing as a hobby. Today, I am satisfied with this situation. It is a matter of appreciating the success of the random and the lesser, rather than the permanent and the spectacular.

For me, then, as for most people writing, the occasional success is a reason for celebration, and not frustration. Not sour grapes, but pleasure from an occasional use another word—repetitive savoring of the vintage.

Sure, in the back of my mind remains the hope that perhaps one of my four novels will be eventually accepted for publication, or one of my six plays, or a book of my short stories, or a book of my poems. And if not, there will still be the satisfaction of, if not “less is more,” then “less is enough.” I do not say set your sights low. On the contrary, set them high. But if, with time, you achieve but occasional success, this, too, is something. Grasp the pen, not half empty, but half full.

The stories, poetry and humor of Larry Lefkowitz have been widely published in journals, ezines and online in the US and abroad. His literary novel, The Critic, the Assistant Critic, and Victoria, and his book, Laughing into the Fourth Dimension, 25 Humorous Fantasy and Science Fiction Stories, are available from on. He has also self published humor books including Humor for Writers.

David Colodney

I admit I’ve never done the research, but something tells me if I were to investigate the etymology of the word “writer,” the word “rejection” would somehow derive from the same root. In ancient Latin or Greek, “rejection” was surely spelled “wrejection,” thereby linking the two words even closer.

And like it or not, “writers” and “rejection” are always linked together, like peanut butter and jelly. Hollywood and Vine. Simon and Garfunkel. Gin and poets. Or vodka and poets. Wine and poets.

If other words, if you’re a writer hoping to get published, get used to the rejection first. It happens to all of us. It can be emotionally crushing, after pouring so much of ourselves into what we write; it’s almost inevitable that we take the rejection personally.

Don’t.

I offer this to you, dear readers: there have been times I’ve considered changing my email address to [email protected] or something similar because “rejected poet” is a cliché. An oxymoron. The ultimate double negative.

After all, those pompous editors don’t really get the subtle nuance in our work. They’re beneath our clever puns and poetic metaphors. Our work is too good for those plebs, anyway. Right?

The simple fact is this: some people will like your writing and some people won’t. Some of these people will be in a position to publish it—or not. That doesn’t mean the writing is bad. It just means someone didn’t like it. Or didn’t think it would fit the theme of the publication. Or any of dozens of other reasons.

Earlier this year, I had the distinction of getting a rejection email about an hour after I got an acceptance email. For the same pair of poems. The same two poems were sent to two different journals, read by two different sets of editors. One liked them, the other didn’t. It was the only time I ever laughed at a rejection.

But it was a watershed moment in my writing life. From that point forward, the rejections just didn’t bother me as much. And, believe me, I’ve had plenty of experience and I’m gaining more experience daily.
I’m not alone.

There are websites dedicated to writer rejection. On http://www.literaryrejections.com/, you can share your rejection stories in a blog simply called “Stories of Rejection.” Other websites recount the legends surrounding literary works that were given the boot.

You think you got it bad? At least you aren’t Robert M. Pirsig. His book, Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, was rejected 121 times. But you know what? The book was finally published in 1974 and went on to sell 5 million copies. The 121 rejections earned Persig a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records for bestseller rejected the most times before publication.

One of my literary heroes, Kurt Vonnegut, once casually strolled to his mailbox only to open this cheerful correspondence:

Dear Mr. Vonnegut,

We have been carrying out our usual summer house-cleaning of the manuscripts on our anxious bench and in the file, and among them I find the three papers which you have shown me as samples of your work. I am sincerely sorry that no one of them seems to us well adapted for our purpose. Both the account of the bombing of Dresden and your article, “What’s a Fair Price for Golden Eggs?” have drawn commendation although neither one is quite compelling enough for final acceptance.

Hmm, let’s see here. Vonnegut. Bombing of Dresden. Could this rejection have been Slaughterhouse Five, a late-20th Century classic and staple of high school reading lists everywhere?

I suddenly feel better about this tasty tidbit in my email last summer:

Dear Mr. Colodney,

Thank you for offering your poetry to XXXXX. We are sorry to tell you we will not be using it.
However, XXXX would like to offer the following encouragement regarding “The One that Got Away”:

“I regret that this poem is not yet ready. A couple of stanzas work beautifully – but others strain for effect or peter out in weak closing lines, so that the moments of tight discipline are lost amid the much looser, more easily satisfied stanzas. I hope this poet becomes more rigorous.”

Apparently, these folks thought they were being encouraging by calling me lazy. That some of my stanzas were ok, but some of them sucked. That various verses went gently into that good night.

So it goes.

Don’t be discouraged. Keep writing. Keep submitting your work. Because the notification that something of yours has been selected for publication, however minor the journal, makes it all worth it.

I’m sure Pirsig would agree.

After realizing from an early age that he had no athletic ability whatsoever, David Colodney turned his attention to writing about sports instead, and has written for The Miami Herald and The Tampa Tribune. He currently studies poetry in the MFA program at Converse College, and serves as  Poetry Co-Editor of the South85 Journal. His poetry has appeared in Shot Glass Journal and Egg. David lives in Boynton Beach, Florida.

Lisa Hase-Jackson

The competing concerns of writing what you feel while keeping your audience in mind is a tough balancing act, one that is further complicated by trying to get published. Racking up rejections while fellow writers get accepted left and right creates self-doubt and can cause you to question your instinct. Should you abandon your vision and write in more popular genres? Seek out more timely topics? Or maybe give up writing all together and take up hurling? While these options seem viable at 2:00 in the morning, take a few minutes to at least consider Brian Setzer’s approach.

Back in the late 70s, Brian Setzer and pre-Stray Cats buddies, drummer Slim Jim Phantom and bassist Lee Rocker, were nearly defeated by a serious lack of audience. But instead of changing their sound to mimic more popular genres like the short-lived Glam Punk movement or the ubiquitous (but decidedly uncharacteristic) Heavy Metal trend, the group sold their instruments for three one-way tickets to London and tried their luck abroad. It was at this time that they picked up the name, Stray Cats, for indeed, that was what they were.

Very soon, Setzer and crew caught the attention of British record producer, Dave Edmonds, who facilitated the release of a number of successful singles and, eventually, two albums. The band’s dedication to rockabilly, which countered the U.K’s punk-saturated music scene at the time, lead to their increased popularity not only in the UK but in America as well. Though they disbanded only a few years later, Setzer, with his characteristic rockabilly hairdo, has remained active and dedicated to his musical styling and is still making rockabilly music today.

Brian Setzer’s approach is an apt example of how far artistic perseverance and an open-mind can go toward defining and expanding audience while also being true to one’s vision. Moving to the U.K. definitely spurred Setzer’s career just when he needed it, but you don’t have to bear the expense and uncertainty of leaving the country just to find and broaden an audience (unless you want to). Even the relatively small transition of changing jobs or moving to a new neighborhood can serve as an opportunity to reach out to new people, and so can simply expanding the definition of your audience, as Setzer did. If you write memoirs about gardening, for example, join a local permaculture group or volunteer for a horticulture society. Not only will you gain writing ideas and topics, but you will find people interested in the kinds of things you write about. With a little luck, they’ll even tell their friends. Or, use social media to find groups, individuals, and associations whose focus is in line with your non-writer interests and become open to the conversations you experience there. If you write poems that center on music, connect with other music lovers and musicians. If your short stories contain socio-political concerns, have a steam-punk theme, or wallow in pop culture, find markets where readers, not writers, of these genres will see your work. Reputable blogs, too, can help broaden your audience and, even though a little off the beaten path, can be worth the investment of an article or essay. Finally, watch for cultures that are oversaturated and ready for a change of pace. Maybe those members of the horticulture group you joined are sick of reading about seed saving and are ready for a little steam-punk horror action.

Above all, remember to shine wherever you are, regardless of how brightly those around you shimmer. You are where you are; why not make the most of it?

Lisa Hase-Jackson holds a Master’s Degree in English from Kansas State University and is pursuing an MFA at Converse College in Spartanburg, S.C. She is a poet, teacher, freelance writer, writing coach, and editor of two poetry blogs, ZingaraPoet.net and 200 New Mexico Poems. Recently, her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in such literary magazines as Sugar Mule, Kansas City Voices, Pilgrimage, and As/Us Journal.  She serves as Review Editor for South85 Journal.

Debby DeRosa

At the beginning of the year, New York writer Jessica Gross got a free ride to Chicago and back on an Amtrak train because she tweeted she would like an Amtrak residency. Her tweet was in response to a statement by Alexander Chee in PEN magazine: “I wish Amtrak had a residency for writers.”

The idea of riding a train and writing has a romantic appeal: beautiful scenery, a gentle, rocking motion, and a nostalgic feel. Plus, spending forty-four hours doing nothing but writing would be amazing for this mother of two who steals her writing time (and any personal time, for that matter) during naps, around appointments, and between other commitments and obligations.

Apparently, a lot of others agree. Since Gross’s “test run” residency, Amtrak has received 16,100 applications for 24 additional residency spots, so many they stopped taking applications for 2014 in June. They announced the winners on Wednesday. With that opportunity closed for the year, maybe it’s time for an alternative. What about an airplane residency?

Most people associate airlines with long lines, crowded public spaces, and unhelpful ticket agents. They think of inconvenience, flight delays, and bumpy rides. They hate to turn over control of their lives to an airline who oversells seats and changes schedules to make a profit. Some would rather drive a car or stay at home than put up with all of the hassle of a plane trip.

For me, however, flying is an escape. As soon as I hand my luggage over to the agent at check in, I relax. I am no longer in charge of anything except getting myself on the plane. My mind can let go of the dishes in the sink, the dirty clothes in piles all over my house, and what to make for dinner. Plus, I get to spend my entire flight without an Internet connection or a cell phone signal. With so much clear space in my head, I can think about my characters, their problems, and their lives.

Then, when I run out of ideas for my current characters, plenty of new ones surround me. In the Atlanta airport in March, I brushed by a middle aged man guiding a blind teenaged boy by his hand. The man leaned into the boy’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, and the boy smiled in satisfaction about whatever he was saying. The scene struck me as so personal that I spent the next flight scribbling in my notebook, imagining the story behind it.

If I tire of musing about the people who surround me, I read. Nothing inspires me to write like reading others’ work. In fact, a love of reading was what made me want to write in the first place. If I read a particularly poignant short story or a few chapters of a good book, my mind races with new ideas, and the desire to put my own words to paper is renewed.

So, airlines, are you listening? I am ready to take my residency the next time you have a free seat leaving the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport.

I’ll go anywhere, like Valdosta, GA; Bangor, ME; or Sioux Falls, SD. I don’t mind coach class in tiny planes, as long as the bathrooms are working. If seats aren’t available to any small airports, send me to the nearby hubs in Atlanta or Charlotte and back a couple of times. I want the journey, not the destination, as long as you get me home… eventually.

Debby DeRosa holds a BA in English from the University of South Carolina-Columbia and an MFA in Creative Writing from Converse College.  In addition to being Editor-in-Chief of South85 Journal, she is the Marketing Manager of Five Star Plumbing Heating Cooling in Greer, SC, and she freelances as a copywriter and content developer.  She and her husband, Joe, live in Greenville, SC, with their two daughters, Aimee and Ruby.

Kristi Hébert

It’s taken me a long time to realize that not everyone channels their mental illness the same way. I read a lot of darker fiction; post-apocalyptic nightmares, our world changed either beyond reckoning or in such miniscule ways that we can cringe and fidget, realizing that it’s only a small step that keeps our reality from looking like theirs. I read the Facebook posts and Tweets by the authors of my favorite books, and I wish I was like them.

I’m torn between the desire to use my depression to fuel my writing and the fear that getting better mean that I won’t write at all. It’s difficult enough for me to work through the haze, the malaise that permeates my brain and fogs my creativity. It’s difficult enough for me to work past the feelings of insecurity and worthlessness to put pen to page, fingers to keyboard and try to figure out what’s in my head. I read all of these quotes about how you aren’t really a writer unless you have to, constantly, all the time, or you are so consumed by the passion of writing that you cannot function otherwise—what if you have a stringent, most deep and dark desire to be a writer, but you are paralyzed by the brokenness of your own heart?

Mental illness is a beast, and while a lot of writers suffer from it, it isn’t something we talk about if it isn’t posthumously. We don’t mention how so-and-so had to battle every day for the two words he put on the page in the entire eight hours he spent ‘writing.’ We don’t talk about how there are days when all we want to do, yearn to do is write, but all we do instead is stare at the ceiling because there is no energy, no light, no life in our minds, our hands, in that sacred space where the words come from. That place can channel your darkness, or it can eat it whole and spit back more.

I’m afraid of getting better, and I’m afraid of not getting better. What could be worse than struggling for each word, crying at night when I fail—again—to write a single sentence that day? I imagine being happy but with a piece missing, knowing there is something essential within me that I once had and will never be able to find again. If I ditch the darkness, where will the light come from?

Will I have any light at all?  One sentence at a time. One word at a time. One battle at a time, on the page, on the screen, in my mind. We’ll see.

Kristi Hébert was born near Buffalo, NY, but she now lives in a mosquito-ridden bayou jungle in Louisiana.  She works as a dog trainer, for which she didn’t need any of her three degrees.  She’s currently getting a fourth degree just for fun.  She likes to write about the end of the world, and she has been mistaken for Ariel, the Little Mermaid, at least once.  She is the Blog Editor of South85 Journal.